The Judas Tree

by A. J. Cronin

  When he sat down, instead of the few desultory handclaps that might have broken out, there was a sudden and sustained eruption of genuine applause. The Holbrooks were delighted, for even they had at last begun to sense the general feeling; Mrs Kindersley went up, smiling, for her tea service; and afterwards the captain actually gave him a word of approval. Only Doris reacted unfavourably with a very dirty look.

  ‘Why the devil did you do that?’

  ‘Just for a change I thought you might like to be popular.’

  ‘Popular my tits. I wanted them to boo us.’

  He danced only two dances with her, drank no more than a single glass of champagne, then, on the plea of having letters to write, excused himself and retired to his cabin.

  After that, while never easy, it was less difficult. He avoided the boat deck where she usually sat, and when they did meet adopted a tone that was light and jocular. Beyond that, he kept himself strictly busy – the approaching landfall made his plea of extra work a plausible excuse. What Doris thought he did not know: following the dinner she had developed a habit of looking at him with narrowed, almost mocking eyes. Occasionally she smiled, and once or twice, when he made a simple remark, burst out laughing. Certainly her parents suspected nothing; they were more marked in their attentions to him than ever.

  He sighed suddenly – it had really been quite a strain – then, rising, he locked up the surgery and went on deck. On the starboard side a group of passengers had gathered, viewing the river bank with an interest made greater by long days at sea. Tall coconut palms rose above the muddy shore lit by a flash of tropical birds, natives knee deep in the yellow water were throwing and drawing their circular nets, catamarans heeled and rippled past, the ship was barely moving, almost stationary, awaiting the river pilot. Amongst the others were the Holbrooks, and finding safety in numbers. Moray joined them. Immediately Mrs Holbrook excitedly took his arm.

  ‘We’re so hoping that our Bert will be coming aboard with the pilot … not that it’s easy …’.

  As she spoke a motor launch shot from the sandy, palm-lined shore and bobbed alongside the ship, and another figure was observed, looking upwards and waving, beside the uniformed pilot.

  ‘It is our Bert,’ joyfully exclaimed Mrs Holbrook, and she added proudly to her husband: ‘Trust Bert to have managed it.’

  He was on board and hugging all three of them within a few minutes, a fair, fattish, pink-faced, jolly fellow of about thirty-one or two, wearing a sportily cut, tight-waisted tussore silk suit solar topee at an angle, fine two-tone buckskin shoes and a startling club tie. Bert, indeed, though inclined to flesh and, as now appeared when he removed his topee, rather thin on the top, seemed something of a dandy, exhibiting gold in his teeth and, on his person, certain articles of unessential jewellery. His eyes, alight with good-fellowship, were agreeably blue though they protruded slightly and had a faintly glassy sheen. His ready laugh, full of bonhomie and sportsmanship, a real back-slapping laugh, echoed across the deck. Too much thyroid, but a good sort, thought Moray, who had been standing some paces away, as Bert came forward to be introduced to him.

  Their meeting was cordial – anyone, Moray surmised, might be an old friend of Bert’s within a couple of hours – but he could see that as yet Dorrie’s brother had no inkling of his close friendship with the family, so he soon took off tactfully for his cabin. At lunch, however, when Bert and his father came down from the bar, Moray, already seated at table, discovered a fraternal arm around his shoulders while a well-primed voice exhaled into his ear:

  ‘Didn’t rumble you were with us, doc. Couldn’t be more delighted if I’d won the Calcutta Sweep. We’ll have a regular old chinwag later.’

  The slow progress up-river gave them, as Bert put it, plenty of time to get together, and it was not long before Moray realised that while Bert might be a sport, a dasher and a josher, just a little flashy perhaps, and with a strong tendency towards pink gins at any hour of the day, he had, like his father, a good heart and a strong sense of family feeling. Moreover, it became equally apparent that for all his gush and gusto Bert had, as his mother put it, a head on his shoulders. He soon revealed himself as a thoroughly knowledgeable fellow, and when it came to business would certainly be a very cool customer with a capacity for getting things done. He had travelled extensively for the firm, had recently spent three months in the United States, and was full of the opportunities and excitements of New York. He talked well, with a man-of-the-world air, a kind of easy intimate verve that exuded cheerfulness and good-fellowship.

  In his company Moray found the river passage all too short. He felt an actual disappointment when they reached Calcutta and the Pindari, churning the muddy water, began manoeuvring into Victoria Dock while the usual pandemonium of debarkation descended upon the ship. Amidst the uproar Bert remained cool and collected, everything was arranged and under control, speed and efficiency were the order of the day. As they came into the dock his long open Chrysler car and a truck were drawn up, waiting alongside. With his parents and Doris he came down the baggage gangway, first off the ship. Three stewards followed with the luggage. In the customs shed, while other passengers hung about interminably, a nod from Bert to the chief babu saw the Holbrooks through without formality. Then off they rolled in the big car to their reservations at the North Eastern Hotel.

  All this happened so fast it left Moray somewhat dashed. There had been goodbyes of course, but hurried ones, given with such preoccupation as to leave him with the unsatisfactory and slightly painful impression of having been rather summarily discarded. Naturally, he was not at liberty to accompany them, yet he felt there might have been definite mention of a future meeting. However, as the Pindari would be two weeks in harbour, loading teak, tea, rubber and cotton goods, he told himself that he would have an opportunity to be with them later on. In any event, was it not best that they should have gone, leaving him free of all conflict, his mind undisturbed, at peace? He began to busy himself with his official duties. He was occupied most of the forenoon and when the last passenger had finally quitted the ship his first reaction was one of mild relief. The pressures exerted on him had been exacting: it would be good to relax.

  By that evening a sudden inexplicable depression descended upon him, nor did it lift during the days that followed. The captain had taken up his usual quarters on shore and O’Neil, departing gaily for a trip along the coast to Kendrapara, had left Jones, the second mate, an elderly uncommunicative Welshman, to supervise the routine operations. Jones, a frustrated man, stuck with a master’s ticket in a subordinate position, had never had much time for Moray, and now he more or less ignored him. He spent much of his day bent over paperback thrillers in the dock canteen, reading and picking his nose, leaving the work in hand to the quartermaster. In the evening he shut himself in his quarters and played his accordion with mournful unction. He never went ashore except to buy ivory elephants to take home to his wife. Already, he assured Moray, he had a glass-cabinetful in his semi-detached house in Porthcawl.

  The empty ship, moored to the filthy, mosquito-infested dock, exposed to the racket of unloading, the endless high chatter of the native stevedores, the scream of winches and the rattle of cranes, was unrecognisable as the noble vessel which had so buoyantly breasted the blue water. It made a miserable lodging. The heat was sweltering, mosquitoes swarmed into his cabin, kept him awake at night with their shrill menacing ping, obliged him to take precautionary measures against malaria. Fifteen grains of quinine a day lowered his spirits further. To make matters worse, the agent had issued an advice that the mail boat had been delayed by a strike at Tilbury and would not arrive until the following week. Moray felt himself even more deserted through the absence of letters, and more and more his melancholy thoughts turned towards his departed friends.

  Why on earth did he not hear from the Holbrooks? Why … why … why? First with irritation, then with anxiety, and finally with all the heart-sinking of hope deferred, he kept asking himse
lf that question. It seemed inconceivable that they should have forgotten him, cast him off as a reject, someone they had used on the voyage but had now decided they did not want. Yet this mortifying thought grew within him. He pictured them in their de luxe hotel, every moment of their day delightfully filled with entertainment and sight-seeing, new faces and new friends around them. Amidst such distractions it might after all be easy to forget. And Doris: no doubt she had quickly found another interest, she who had been crazy about him. He winced jealously, between apprehension and anger. This was the most tormenting thought of all. Only his pride and the dread of a rebuff kept him from ringing her at the North Eastern.

  In an effort to occupy himself he essayed a tentative expedition ashore. But the docks were miles from the city proper, he could not find a gharry, and after losing himself amongst a huddle of ramshackle huts where squatting natives squirted scarlet betel juice into the pervading dust, he finally acknowledged defeat, and plodded back to the ship, with the wretched sensation that he had reverted to the drab and dismal days of his youth.

  It was then that he began really desperately to miss the Holbrooks, and all that he had enjoyed in their society. What a wonderful family they were – how hospitable, generous, and – now he made no bones about it – so rich! He’d never have the luck to meet such people again. Mrs Holbrook was sweet, so kind and motherly. Bert was such a good sort; they had taken to each other on sight. And the offer the old man had made him, admitting that he couldn’t accept it, was fantastically favourable, the chance of a lifetime. Never would such a golden opportunity recur. Never. By comparison his future at the little Glenburn Hospital was dimmed to drab insignificance. And he had called himself ambitious.

  And Dorrie, did he not regret her most of all? What a damned attractive girl she was – even her variable moods were somehow fascinating. One could never be bored by her. On the contrary, just to be with her was an excitement. At night, sleepless in his stifling cabin, which lay close against the high dock wall, he tossed about in his bunk, thinking of their dances together, of how, looking into his eyes with that intent and silent invitation, she had pressed against him, of that afternoon on the boat deck when all sorts of possibilities had opened to him. A wave of hot longing swept over him. What a fool he had been to reject that seductive offering. How O’Neil would laugh, if he ever came to hear of it. What a clot she must have thought him. Could she be blamed for having written him off altogether? He buried his face in the pillow in an access of misery and self-contempt.

  Chapter Fourteen

  At the end of that week, on a sweltering, gritty forenoon, as Moray leaned idly over the deck rail, his spirits at their lowest ebb, he saw, as in a mirage, the big shining Chrysler enter the dock and roll alongside the ship. Stunned, he raised his hand to his eyes. It couldn’t be real, the sun and his imagination had produced a visual hallucination. But no, there, gracefully reclining in the rear, one arm negligently along the upholstered seat back, plump legs nonchalantly crossed, Burma cheroot poised airily between ringed fingers, topee at a rakish tilt, was Bert.

  ‘Do my aged eyes deceive me, or do I perceive the medical officer of the good ship Pindari?’ Bert called up with a grin: then, in a different voice, ‘Bring out your gear, old boy. You’re coming to us.’

  Moray’s heart leaped. They had not forgotten him. Pale with excitement and relief he rushed down to his cabin. What an idiot he had been – of course they wanted him, it couldn’t have been otherwise. In less than five minutes he had changed out of his uniform and was in the car with his suitcase, which the native chauffeur bestowed in the boot. As they purred off towards the city, Bert explained the reason for the delay in calling for him – a hitch in the warehouse lease that had taken several days to straighten out. But now the agreement was signed and they were free to let themselves go in a proper good time.

  ‘This is a lively old burg once you savez your way around,’ he confided easily. ‘Some geezer called it the City of Dreadful Night, but I’ve found the nights full of something better than dread. There’s a couple of little Eurasian nurses – hot stuff and pretty as you find them.’ He blew an explanatory kiss into the air. ‘I speak with the voice of experience, m’boy. But there, I know you’re only interested in our Doris. And believe me, though she’s my sister, Dorrie’s a pretty good number herself.’

  Clear of the outer straggle of dilapidated shacks, they entered the city proper by the wide, crowded stretch of Chowringhe Road, swept past the broad maidan, green with ficus trees and studded with lamentable equestrian statues, then drew up under the tall portico of the North Eastern Hotel. They were bowed in, through the high marble pillared hall, whirling with ceiling fans, and Bert led the way upstairs to the room he had reserved for Moray adjoining their own apartments on the first floor.

  ‘I’ll leave you to get straight for half an hour,’ he said, looking at his watch, ‘ Ma and Dad are out, but we’ll all meet at tiffin, meaning lunch, Dave.’

  When he had gone Moray looked round the room. It was most luxurious – large and cool, tastefully tiled, with latticed jalousies and fresh, draped mosquito curtains shading the large high bed which had been turned down to expose fine spotless linen. The furniture was painted a pale shade of green, and a bowl of roses stood on the dressing table. Beyond was the bathroom, white and gleaming, lush with towels, soap, bath salts and a soft white bath robe. He smiled delightedly. What a difference from his small, stuffy, mosquito-ridden cabin: this was the real thing. He unpacked his few things, had a wash, and was brushing his hair when the door opened and Doris came in.

  ‘Hello,’ she said briefly.

  He swung round.

  ‘Dorrie … how are you?’

  ‘Still breathing, if it interests you.’

  They gazed at each other in silence, he with admiring ardour, she with an almost expressionless face. She was wearing a smart new clinging frock in soft petunia colours, fine beige silk stockings and high-heeled suède shoes. She had on a lipstick that matched the predominant pink in her frock, and her hair had been freshly set. She looked different, smarter even than on the ship, older, more attractively sophisticated, and, alas, less attainable. Her scent came towards him.

  ‘You look … stunning,’ he said huskily,

  ‘Yes,’ she said coolly, reading his eyes. ‘I believe you’re slightly glad to see me.’

  ‘More than slightly. The question is … what about you?’

  She gave him a long direct stare, then barely smiled.

  ‘You’re here, aren’t you? That seems to be the answer.’

  ‘Good of you to have me,’ he murmured, submissively, ‘ It was rather miserable down at the docks.’

  ‘I thought it might be,’ she said with cold knowledge. ‘I wanted to punish you.’

  He looked at her blankly.

  ‘What on earth for?’

  ‘I just wanted to,’ she answered noncommittally. ‘ I like to be cruel sometimes.’

  ‘What a little sadist,’ he said, trying to catch the facetious note he had once used towards her. Yet as he spoke he had the odd sensation that the balance of their relationship had altered, passed to her. He felt suddenly, dismally, her wish to establish that on shore he had ceased to be the dashing, sought-after young ship’s surgeon in his natty company uniform, and was no more than an ordinary young fellow in a worn hand-me-down suit that did not fit and was quite unsuitable for the climate. However, although aware of the effect she had created, she had dropped the subject as though it no longer interested her.

  ‘You like my new dress?’

  ‘It’s a dream,’ he said, still striving for lightness. ‘Did you get it here?’

  ‘We bought the silk in the bazaar yesterday. They have lovely native material there. It was made up in twenty-four hours.’

  ‘Fast work,’ he commented.

  ‘And about time,’ she said coolly. ‘I can’t stand waiting, or being put off. To be quite frank, I’ve had about enough of that in the last two
weeks, the way you’ve been giving me the air. And incidentally, because I’ve told you off, don’t imagine we’re all straightened out. I haven’t forgiven you yet by a long chop. I’ll want a word with you later,’ As she turned to go she seemed to relent. Her expression cleared slightly. ‘I hope you like your room. I put the roses in myself. I’m just across the corridor –’ she flashed him a sly glance, ‘if you need anything.’

  When she had gone he remained staring at the panels of the closed door. She was offended, and no wonder, after the way he had cold-shouldered her. How stupid and unmannerly he had been to hurt her feelings. He hoped she would come round in the end.

  Below, in the great marbled lounge, his welcome by the Holbrook parents was altogether different, almost that of a returned son. Indeed, Mrs Holbrook kissed him on the cheek. Luncheon was more than a reunion, almost a festival. They had a table by the window, overlooking the gardens, four native servants in white tunics with red sashes and turbans stood behind their chairs, the food, chosen by Bert, was rich, spicy and exotic. This was the first time Moray had been in an hotel since that eventful day at the Gairsay Grand, but if a recollection of that other, so different, lunch crossed his mind it was swiftly gone, swept away by Bert’s explosive laughter. Exuberantly bent on showing them the town, he was, while juicily disposing of a succulent mango, outlining his programme for the coming week. This afternoon he proposed to take them to the Jain Temple and the Gardens of Manicklola, to see the famous fish in the ornamental lake.

  ‘They’re quite remarkable,’ he concluded. ‘They come to the surface and swim over to you when you call them.’

  ‘Now, now, Bert,’ Mrs Holbrook smiled in fond protest.

  ‘Seriously, Mater. I’m not joking. They’ll eat out of your hand if you want to feed them.’

  ‘Imagine that! What do fish like best?’

  ‘Chips,’ Doris said in a bored voice, then went into fits of laughter.